


Miracles

by mylifeinshadow



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylifeinshadow/pseuds/mylifeinshadow
Summary: This is old, but I forgot to upload it. From a tumblr prompt.“First time making love after the second baby. Extra special if Mulder makes it special and shows Scully that she’s still beautiful after having a baby.”
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 1
Kudos: 59





	Miracles

Never give up on a miracle.

He told you that once, long before the existence of prodigy babies and fugitive status. You never did. Not once. Not when he was torn from you, nor when he was returned. Not when he was falsely imprisoned. Not even when you were forced to put your first born up for adoption. You always knew you’d find each other one day—you, his father, and beloved baby becoming one happy family at last.

It took longer than you expected, with twist and turns along the way that made you feel whole whilst simultaneously tearing you apart inside. But you found him. You loved him. If even for so brief of time. All you can do now is wait until he finds you again, when all is safe. Regardless of what you saw down by the docks, you know your child is alive. Regardless of what you’re told, you know that Mulder is his father. Even if there truly were medical interference, that was Mulder’s child in mind, heart and spirit.

Never give up on a miracle.

The words replay through your mind on a near constant loop these days—your eyes drifting to the sleeping infant in the back seat, mitted hands raised by her head as if in total surrender. Six weeks post cesarean, and this miracle baby of yours is healthy and thriving. It was almost more terrifying, going through pregnancy as a fifty something year old, knowing the risks.

Maybe there’s hope.

A large, calloused hand brushes your own, rousing you from your thoughts as he collects his sleeping child from her carseat. God, if someone had told you two decades ago that Fox Mulder would be the most attentive father you’d ever meet, you would’ve laughed in their face. And yet, no midnight cries went unanswered. Most days, you wake up to the smell of a hearty breakfast as he bustles around speaking softly to the infant in his arms. It hurts your heart a little, knowing that he’s making up for the lack of time spent with his son.

Melissa goes down easily for her nap, and it just figures that the most exhausting man you’ve ever met is the only one that can get her to sleep.

Strong arms wrap around your waist and you reflexively lean back into his chest. His fingers stroke your hips, and just like that, your body is on fire. Six weeks post partum—nearly nine weeks since the last time you allowed yourselves to get overwhelmed by passion. That late in the pregnancy, it was pretty risky, and you’d both agreed to wait until after your bundle of joy had arrived.

It’s still a wonder to you that two middle aged parents who have been together for the better part of twenty years still find this much ardor for one another. Yet, you’re not entirely surprised. It took seven years to get to that point, and the world had cruelly ripped the two of you apart more than once. If nothing else, you’re making up for missed time.

A warm hand finds it’s way beneath your blouse, fingers sprawling out. It’s as if the touch itself is magic, heat spreading from his palm throughout your belly, sending pulses straight to the juncture between your thighs. You hear a shaky sigh, and you’re not even sure which of you it came from, but within seconds, you’re leading him to the bedroom.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling you gently into his lap. His lips are soft, sweet, supple as they caress yours. You return his affection, tongue lapping at his lower lip. The warmth of his hand is back, and you open your mouth against his. Rather than taking it as an invitation, his lips trail over your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. Your head tilts back, but you can still feel the fabric of your silky blouse pooling around his wrists as he lifts it to gain more access to your flesh.

“You’re so beautiful, Scully,” he murmurs from his spot at your collarbone. The blush that tints your cheeks is entirely involuntary, and he gently rolls you beneath him, discarding your shirt in the process. Before you can think to argue or cover up, the bedside lamp is on and his eyes are everywhere.

Your back arches as his fingers trace your nipples through a decidedly unsexy nursing bra, and he’s disposing of it with ease. As if from instinct alone, your hands move to cover yourself. The ten pounds of baby weight that still linger have you feeling more than just a little insecure. But his hands gently grasp yours, placing them at your sides as his eyes roam your body.

“Every time I think I’ve committed every inch of your body to memory, something changes, and I find more to love.” His voice is so awed, so reverent, that it brings tears to your eyes. Gentle but calloused hands feel so delicious against your swollen, aching breasts, and for a moment, you forget about the insecurities that plague you. But then tender kisses reach the scar that spreads across the span of your lower stomach, and your body is tensing in response.

You don’t get a chance to argue before he’s shushing you, fingers running soothingly over your arms. His kisses span the entire length of the scar, not letting up until your body begins to relax. “I love this,” he murmurs, eyes meeting yours as he rests his chin on your pelvis. Fingertips trail gently over your scar, leaving a strange, tingling feeling beneath. “This is the body that gave me a daughter.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and you can tell there’s more he wants to say. A hand smooths it’s way through his hair, urging him on.

“A son,” he chokes out, and the tears that had been blurring your vision now fall freely. His forehead is pressed against your hipbone and you can feel the tears as they hit your skin.

It’s still another moment before he’s able to compose himself, and you know you’re sharing the image of your teenaged boy, just barely scraping by. You can’t help but be reminded of Mulder, just after you’d had William. Hiding and running from the forces that continued to keep you apart. You can only thank God that your child has his father’s survival instincts.

You hadn’t realized that he’d moved on until his tongue is tenderly laving your puffy, swollen sex, and then you’re crying out for a different reason. He’s almost excruciatingly thorough, tasting and teasing every inch of your flesh until you’re quaking.

You’re breathless by the time he’s made his way up back to meet you eye to eye. Somewhere along the way, he’d rid himself of his own clothes, and you revel in the heat of his body as it hovers over yours.

“Scully,” he breathes, his lips merely sweeping across your own. In an instant, he’s buried deep within you, and you’re crying out against his mouth. His eyes never leave yours as he moves within you. Gentle fingers caress your cheeks, your neck, every part of your body that they can reach.

He sighs between grunts, presses his lips against your heart. It’s slow, tender, something not very much unlike your first time. But it moves you—grounds you to the earth, brings tears to your eyes.

“You’ve given me almost everything,” he tells you, and you can’t help but give it back to him.

“Almost?”

He grins at this, fingers sliding between your body to slick over your clit. Once. Twice. And then you’re flying, clutching at his shoulders and crying out to him, to God, to anyone who cares to listen.

“Marry me,” he requests, even as your muscles are still clamping down on him, your body still jerking with aftershocks. It’s just like him, to drop something major on you when you’re in the middle of an endorphin rush and unable to remember you’re own name, let alone say no.

You tell him this, and in an instant he’s laughing, groaning, crying, coming. His exhausted body slumps down next to yours, and he uses his last burst of energy to pull you into his arms. You study him carefully—long eyelashes fluttering shut as his chest heaves, the upward tug of his lips.

Your fingers trace his jawline, over his nose and cheekbones. When his eyes open to meet your own, you find yourself staring into your past, your present, your future.

“Yes,” you whisper, and with your thumbs on his lips, you can feel them spread into a blissful grin.


End file.
